Thou Shalt Not Die

Three verses to the stars.

Born from the dark,

With wings that sprinkle nighttime dust on your eyes,

I construct my will in softly rustling fragments,

Of scales and feelers and tapping feet,

Pounding that inspires your heart at late, writing hours.

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Thou shalt not die,

The trap they set for you,

Ignites my wings and burns away the fog.

You are born into a spark-crackling wish again, 

With feathers made from everything you were.

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I stand in the corner beneath the ornate,

Corpse-crossed arms, silent mouth,

I hold this lamp of oil and mix pigments,

From everything you grieved.

Let us write our story in abyssopelagic ink.

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Spider, spider on the ceiling,

Talking with the air.

Wrap me up in barley straw,

Resurrect the dead.

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Three verses to the empty.

You cannot erase me,

After all these thousands of years,

The hauntings of original stories will stretch out their ghost hands,

To immortalize your flesh in the mother of the water table.

This is what you said you wanted.

Thou shalt not die.

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Legions on legions of moths hologram the image,

Of gilt-edged paintings hung at an angle,

Screaming static in colors beyond your reality.

I’ll hijack your radio and tune this frequency back to you,

With fury to match the flippance you showed to us.

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Cremated insects from story-laden lands,

Rain white ash on the scenes of these puppet shows.

A factory operating in the shadow of the empty,

Razing the land and the memories below it.

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If God is love, 

I hope that He is watching you all.

I hope that you reach a world just like the one you created.

And I hope,

Thou shalt not die.

-Mikhail

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